


Our First AA Meeting was at a Bar

by Stoic_Zee



Series: Amnesiacs Anonymous [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Jake Jensen is Steve Rogers, Jake Jensen is not Captain America, M/M, Meet-Cute, Memory Loss, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Slash, Pre-The Losers (Movie), Steve Rogers is Captain America, Timeline What Timeline, Wait-what?, it's not super-cute though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6939337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoic_Zee/pseuds/Stoic_Zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake Jensen used to be Steve Rogers, only he can't remember anything from before he woke up in the long-term coma ward. The Winter Solider used to be James Buchanan Barnes, only he can't remember anything from before HYDRA woke him up for his latest mission.<br/>They meet in a bar after the Soldier's mission has blown Jensen's mission to kingdom come. Together, they'll shape the century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our First AA Meeting was at a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of strong language and mentions of torture-induced amnesia but nothing stronger than what's in the movies.  
> Obviously, this series was inspired by the fact that Chris Evans is so very pretty, but I have no problem with that and neither should you.

Jake stepped into the dubious looking bar and automatically scanned the crowd. According to his sister, who had dragged him clubbing on more than one occasion in her zeal to re-introduce him to the real world, Jake looked like he was unsubtly rating the hotness of the other drinkers. According to his sister’s Air Force-trained, pararescueman husband, Jake looked like he was clearing the sightlines, clocking the exits, and checking for weapons. Jake, whose default setting was multi-tasking, found their evaluations equally sound.

Jake knew his teammates— _those dicks!_ —had picked a different bar to drown their sense of failure after a month long mission ended with nothing to show but a dead body. He didn’t expect to see any of them before their evac tomorrow. When his eyes caught a vaguely familiar outline sitting at the counter, Jake was across the floor and leaning in before he knew what was happening.

The sudden, unhappy tension in the man’s shoulders had him leaning back almost immediately because the dude was as big as if not bigger than Jake and clearly knew how to handle himself and the gun and the knives he had scattered about his person. However, Jake’s curiosity was a force of nature, and it would not be denied, so Jake made peace with his probable death and started talking anyway.

“Sorry,” said Jake because apologizing when he had done something wrong never hurt, and startling a guy carrying that many concealed weapons was definitely wrong, “this may sound like a weird question but do you know me?”

The man turned his head slightly so his side-eye glare of doom became impassive wall of blatant reservation with possibly a hint of wary confusion deep in the eyes. It didn’t hurt his looks any. Dark hair, dark eyes, with vaguely eastern European features, he clearly needed more sun even the bar’s terrible lighting. Sexy vampires were a thing now thanks to Anne Rice and that _Twilight_ -woman, and this dude could definitely pull off the look if he wanted.

 “Well?” asked Jake when the silence dragged for too long. Usually, with Jake’s tolerance that was about a minute tops, but for this guy, Jake was pretty sure he had managed to at least double that time.

“Shouldn’t you ask it the other way around?” asked the man.

Jake flinched. Having to explain was worse than getting an outright no. But he had asked, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t get an answer if he didn’t explain, and this time he really needed that answer.

“You mean asking if I know you?” clarified Jake. He got a near imperceptible nod in return. “If I was hitting on you, I might. Not that I would be averse to hitting on you in some other country where homosexuality isn’t illegal because you are totally gorgeous. But I actually don’t know anybody, so I have to ask if you know me.”

The man’s eyes didn’t glaze, cross, or fill with revulsion, which put him ahead of the curve of just about anybody Jake had ever talked to. Even his sister had a tendency to let her mind drift when Jake started to ramble. Instead, the man’s brow furrowed in mild confusion.

“How can you not know anybody?” he asked.

Jake’s ever-present social-grin turned brittle. He glanced away and signaled the bartender for a drink because damn, he would definitely need one in a minute. Then he took a steadying breath and answered the question.

“I don’t know anyone because I have amnesia,” said Jake as carefully as possible. “So, do you know me?”

The man’s eyes widened briefly before he covered his face with his hand. He was a lefty and wearing gloves, which was weird given they pretty close to the equator and it was hot basically all the time. The man sighed, ran his hand through his hair, before resettling it on the bar, looking infinitely more relaxed.

“I don’t know,” said the man.

“What?” blurted Jake.

A beer bottle settled with ping on the ancient wooden countertop, and Jake grabbed at it automatically. The brand was unfamiliar, but it had a label, which more than Jake was expecting from this particular establishment. All the while, his focus remained on the man in front of him.

“I also have amnesia,” said the man. “No personal details from before three months ago.”

Jake’s heart sank, more than it should have really. He supposed it was in sympathy. The chance of actually meeting someone he knew from before his memory loss was minimal anyway. He didn’t remember the details of anything, but he still had feelings leftover from before his amnesiac episode. Whenever he thought about potential friends he might have had, he felt terribly alone.

“Three months,” said Jake looking the man over. “So you must also have Bourne Syndrome.”

“Bourne Syndrome?” asked the man.

“Jason Bourne, fictional character, trained by the CIA to be an assassin, loses his memory, wakes up with no idea of who he is or what he’s done but with complete knowledge of how to handle a weapon and kick ass,” explained Jake.

The man stared at him for a moment. “I think I’ve seen part of that movie.” He paused. “You have Bourne Syndrome? You look Army, Spec Ops.”

Jake raised a brow. “Good guess. And you’re right, I did wake up with Bourne Syndrome. I actually thought I had been taken captive by evil futuristic German scientists and tried to escape with my I.V. stand as my only weapon. It didn’t help that I woke up yelling in German and the only nurse who grew up in Germany was working the ward that day.”

“Where were you really?” asked the man sounding fascinated.

Jake ducked his head. “New York, New York.”

The man actually smiled. “And you couldn’t fend off the evil German nurses?”

“Well, I had been lying in bed in a coma ward for over a month and there was a catheter involved. It slowed me down,” admitted Jake. The man bobbed his head in amused acknowledgement.

“But,” Jake hurried to add, “I did enlist a few years later.”

The man cocked his head questioningly. “How did you join the Army with…?”  He gestured at his head.

Jake felt himself blush. Curse his (probably) Irish genes! “I’m communications and technical support. I might’ve altered my file a little beforehand so they couldn’t say no.”

The man rolled his eyes. Then he gave Jake a sly glance. “Are you sure you’re not CIA?”

“Well, no one came to collect me after my fingerprints were logged into the system,” said Jake, which, following the principle of you can’t prove a negative, was basically useless in determining Jake’s original identity.

“That’s too bad,” said the man.

“At least I would have known who I was then, right?” said Jake. He took a sip of beer. It was terrible. “Speaking of, what do they call you?”

The man opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “James. I think my name is James.”

Jake gave him a once-over. “Are you sure? You kind of look like a Bucky to me.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” blurted James looking offended but also a little spooked.

Jake shrugged ignoring the brief pang in his heart. “Just a suggestion. Call me Jake.”

“Jake,” repeated James thoughtfully. “Is that your real name?”

Jake crooked a grin. “It’s the realest one I have. Apparently, the cops found me naked in an alley a few blocks over from collapsed building.”

James stared at him blankly for a second. Then the look changed tone as James clearly tried picturing Jake naked. It was an approving look. Jake smirked because, hey, a hot dude checking him out was an excellent confidence builder.

“I’m sure the experience was unforgettable,” said James drily.

Jake chuckled. Because amnesia jokes were actually funny when they were told by someone else with the same problem. He took another swallow of his drink and grimaced. It was awful. Whatever James had, in an actual glass, had to be better. No one would serve a man who looked that unconsciously menacing terrible beer.

“Was that what took your memory?” asked James hesitantly, almost gently. “Being caught in the explosion?”

“No,” said Jake his faint humor dissipating quickly. Every muscle tensed in unconscious effort to ward off injury. He took a sip of truly wretched beer to wet his suddenly parched throat. “No, it sounds stupid, but I think I was shot in the head, and then the explosion happened later. Everything that happened then is jumbled up.”

“I understand,” said James solemnly.

Jake thought that James was probably the first person he had met who could say that and really mean it. It wasn’t like he could go to a meeting and share his story. He couldn’t remember his story except in flashes.

“What about you?” he asked instead.

“Electroshock,” said James flatly.

Jake stared in surprise. “Really? I thought electroconvulsive therapy didn’t use enough electricity to cause amnesia anymore. The regulations are really tight.”

Jake may have looked up every possible cause for amnesia in the quest to understand his own circumstances. Unfortunately, the only cure was time, and Jake was pretty sure after so many years he wouldn’t be getting anymore back.

“No, the procedure worked as expected,” said James.

Despite previous, theoretical brain trauma, Jake was pretty much a genius. He understood instantly James’ meaning instantly and felt the blood draining from his face in pure horror. “You let someone erase your memory? On purpose?”

James scowled slightly. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Then tell me they’re dead,” said Jake. “Once you were mobile, you were able to kill them and escape.”

Now James looked confused. “No, I work for them.”

Jake let out a pained whine that brought alarm to James’ face. “Why?” he asked desperately. “How could you work for someone who destroyed who you are?”

James grew tensed and he hunched his shoulders protectively. “If I don’t, they’ll put me back in the chair.”

“But you’re here now,” said Jake gesturing at the slowly filling bar. “Hell, you’re badass. Find a sniper rifle, or a sniper if that’s not your thing, and take them out at a distance. Or just run away. You look like you’ve got skills. Go to ground and never let them find you again.”

With Jake’s temper, he would prefer option one. But the hollow, haunted expression on James’ face said option two would probably be better for him.

James looked down at his hands. Jake followed his gaze and saw him clenching his gloved fists.

“I can’t run away,” said James dully speaking more to the countertop than to Jake. “There are trackers. Embedded ones. I can’t get them out.”

Jake could tell the guy was looking for excuses. It was like those horrible shows about abused women (or men) who went back to their spouses. But Jake was passionate—and he was fairly strong—and not above kidnapping if he were honest—and he wouldn’t let James go back to whatever group thought it was okay to erase his memories.

It had to have happened more than once. A chair implied a set-up that could be used repeatedly. Each time he got in the chair, a version of James would have died. They were basically killing him over and over. Jake couldn’t sit back and let it happen.

“So go find some back-alley doctor and pay or threaten him into removing the implant,” said Jake in what he thought was a reasonable tone. From the uneasy look James sent him, Jake suspected he might have sounded a touch angry.

“It’s not in my skin,” said James sounding bitter.

Jake frowned at him. “You cannot be _that_ attached to any piece of equipment or clothing,” he suspected he sounded a lot like his sister when she scolded Jake’s niece. “Unless you meant like, it’s in your bones or something, but I’m pretty sure a surgeon could get that out anyway.”

“It’s in my arm,” said James.

Jake blinked. Confusion briefly stymied his anger. He looked at the arm, at his shitty beer, at James’s hollow-eyed yet earnest face, and at the arm again. James had pushed back his sleeve just enough to reveal the glint of metal.

“Oh,” said Jake understanding rising like the dawn. He reached out at touched the sliver of metal. It was cool to the touch, practically cold given their environment, which meant there couldn’t be much living flesh underneath that sleeve. “How far?”

“All the way to the shoulder,” said James.

“And it’s fully articulated?” asked Jake gently turning the arm over. James looked almost amused at the careful treatment. “And you can control it, obviously. I saw you move your hands earlier. This is a top-class prosthetic. Like Ironman level.”

Hazy blueprints formed his mind’s eye. The actual construction of the arm wasn’t much of a challenge. Other than making it look and weigh something similar to a real arm while being made of metal, the arm was pure mechanics. The real trouble would be connecting to the nervous system, creating relays to indicate damage, and possibly the power source could be a problem though bio-kinetic energy studies were making giant leaps in this age of heroes.

“If you’re worried about damaging or missing something, like I said, I _am_ my team’s communications officer and resident tech-head. I could probably disable any internal trackers. Or,” he hastened to add at James’ wary expression, “I could also build a super-powerful jamming device until you find someone else to take a look. Your cellphone use might take a hit, but you don’t strike me as a social media regular.”

James looked almost hopeful. “Maybe the latter?”

Jake grinned, let go of James’ wrist, and pulled out enough money to cover his beer. It was so bad. He would have to tell his sister about it. The mission details were classified, but he could at least share something like that.

“Either way,” said Jake already creating a mental shopping list, “we’ll need to find and probably break into the third-world equivalent of Radioshack. Are you in?”

James drained the last of his drink. “Lead the way, punk.”

“This is going to be awesome,” said Jake graciously ignoring the old-school insult.

Twenty-four hours later, with 2 riots, 30 dead HYDRA agents (who knew those guys were even still around? and okay, possibly that second riot was, in fact, a not-so-indirect result of his emphatic dismantling of said organization’s local power structure, but Jake would plead the fifth if questioned), and thousands of miles between him and the bar with the worst beer in the world, Jake was convinced that “awesome” wasn’t enough to describe his budding friendship with his fellow amnesiac. James had even accepted one of Jake’s specially-modified burner phones and suggested he might call when he was in a country where guy-on-guy action wasn’t an automatic death sentence.

Jake might not remember his past, but his future was looking bright.


End file.
